


Contrail

by sweetinsane



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cabinlock, Crossover, Gen, One Shot, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 18:45:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetinsane/pseuds/sweetinsane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin's world is shattered when he finds out about his brother's suicide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contrail

**Author's Note:**

> The main reason I wrote this was because I wanted to explore Martin's relationship with Mycroft.

Martin should have known something was wrong, he really should have. But, typically to MJN Air, things hadn’t gone exactly as planned in Tokyo, so when Martin received Sherlock’s text while they were finally boarding, he’d sighed irritatedly and replied: “What did you do now?”

And if the message “I’m sorry for everything. SH” shouldn’t have set the alarms blaring in his head, the fact that he had a missed call from Mycroft of all the people when they landed in Helsinki definitely should have. Mycroft never called, but this time he’d even left a message in his voice mail, only asking for him to call back as soon as he could.

But Helsinki proved to be nearly as bad as Tokyo while Douglas attempted to contact his friend Milo in Rautavaara, somewhere over Kuopio, miles away from Helsinki, for this time they had actually landed at Helsinki-Vantaa International Airport. Carolyn was furious for the fact that they had landed on another proper airport after spending two days at Narita International Airport. Definitely not the top choice for a budget airline –airdot, like MJN, but their golfer businessmen clients had insisted on Narita. Martin just simply hadn’t had any time to think about Sherlock or Mycroft –or if there was some significance to their messages. Still, never mind all the havoc at Helsinki, Martin was on great mood once they finally landed to Fitton in the morning, local time. His goal was to get the paperwork done quickly and drive home to catch a few hours of precious sleep before a van job in the afternoon.

The others, as usual, had left well before him, so there was no Arthur to fetch him coffee. He felt a little tired and worn like always after a long flight, but still relatively happy as he walked from the register of the airfield’s “café” (just a small kiosk, really, not even kept opened most of the time) with a mug of steaming hot coffee, when his eyes suddenly caught The Sun’s huge headline with that silly hat photograph Sherlock so loathed.

SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS

The mug slipped from his hands, shattering into pieces at his feet. The girl behind him at the register said something, but Martin couldn’t make out the words. He couldn’t even move.

It wasn’t the only one. Next to it was another paper’s nearly identical headline: SUICIDE OF FAKE DETECTIVE

_The Hat-Man takes his own life._

Martin wasn’t sure he was able to breathe. 

 _That’s a lie_ was the first thing to cross his mind. He wasn’t sure if he’d said it out loud, but it was a ridiculous thought. "He’s not a fake.”

The girl from the register seemed to have realised something was definitely wrong and that it wasn’t just Captain Crieff’s usual clumsiness, but Martin didn’t really notice. Suddenly it was just important to get away from the departures hall and away from the few people as quickly as humanly possible.

While he walked he instinctively found his mobile and started to text. They always texted. Sherlock didn’t like talking on the phone.
    
    
    To: Sherlock
    Sherlock, where are
    you?! It’s not true,
    isn’t it?! Please tell
    me you’re alright!

As soon as he’d sent the message he realised how stupid it was. If Sherlock was truly dead...

 _No! He can’t be!_ his mind rebelled, until he remembered Mycroft.

 _Oh, god..._ That’s why he’d called. It had to be. Mycroft never called. They didn’t talk. Mycroft had always been distant, some sort of an unreachable character. He was the one to tell him and Sherlock they couldn’t be an aeroplane and a pirate when they grew up. He had dryly scorned at them when they'd played pranks on him or attempted to make him lose his cool by bullying him. Of course they never succeeded and that had always put Sherlock on sour mood.

But even though Martin would have never admitted it to Sherlock, he'd nevertheless always looked up to Mycroft and secretly admired him, been proud to have a brother like him. He bit his index finger between his teeth, looking at the phone.

He should probably call back.

No, no, no, he couldn’t, not now. He couldn’t deal with Mycroft right now. He just wanted to go home, he _knew_ he had to go home, knew he had to get away from the airfield and the few people. His mind seemed to switch on autopilot. He hastily gathered his belongings, leaving the half done logs on the table and somehow managed to make it to his van. It took him several attempts to open the door and start the damn thing with how his hands were shaking. He probably shouldn’t be driving at all.

By some miracle he found himself at the front door of the shared student house he’d called his home for the past nine years. He didn’t remember a thing about the drive from the aifield, but suddenly he just was there, fumbling with his keys. No one seemed to be home, but it wasn’t really a wonder at this hour on a weekday.

He climbed up the narrow stairs to his attic room, locked the door behind him and mechanically started to change off his uniform. Only after he was wearing his comfortable, well worn jeans and a T-shirt with a little aeroplane printed at the chest he sat on the mattress on the floor, instinctively minding his head.

A part, large part of him, knew it to be futile, but he still reached for his mobile, hoping, _hoping_ against everything...

Nothing. No new messages.

Sherlock always replied, _always_ , if the message was from Martin and Martin knew it.

 _Suicide of fake detective..._ It couldn’t be, it couldn’t! He should’ve taken the newspaper. Sherlock wasn’t a fake, why would anyone who’d seen him work ever think that? Why would he kill himself?

Just a little while ago Martin had been so proud to see his face printed on the papers, so proud to be able to look at it and know it was his brother finally getting credit for the good he’d always been doing. He’d been so proud to be able to tell the others at MJN that yes, the famous detective didn’t just look like him a little, but that they were actually related. That they were brothers. The Reichenbach Hero was his brother.

Arthur had been thrilled. Even Douglas had been impressed. Hadn’t stopped him from wondering out loud how such a dim-witted short man could be related to the tall detective.

Martin didn’t know when he started crying, but once he did, there was no end to it. It started with two wet lines on his cheeks and batting of his eyes because he couldn’t see, but no matter how much he blinked his vision didn’t clear. Soon the tears were running freely on his face, and loud, violent sobs rocked his entire body. He hugged the pillow and buried his face into it to muffle the noisy wails that came out his throat uncontrollably.

_Sherlock is dead._

He could think of nothing else and it felt like someone was ripping apart his soul. _Why, why, why?_

Why would Sherlock do that? The Sherlock who’s mind was so brilliant and who’s eyes lit up with childish excitement at each new puzzle or mystery. If anyone in this family was to commit suicide, shouldn’t it have been him with his miserable little life with piloting as a hobby and a van job that hardly earned him enough to eat properly?

It took him a while to realise his phone was ringing. His head popped up from the pillow, responding to the sound like Pavlov's dog. A customer. Had to be. No one else ever called him.

Martin wiped his face in a vain attempt to stop the tears and clear his nose, before quickly reaching for the phone. He couldn’t afford to lose a customer. Willing the hiccuping sobs to stop he answered without looking the number.

“I-Icarus Removals”, he managed.

The line was silent for half a second before the caller spoke: “Martin.”

It was Mycroft. He didn’t know why, but upon hearing his voice, Martin burst into tears again. Oddly enough, he felt relieved. Like in Douglas –no, even more so than in Douglas, there was this strange reassuring thing about Mycroft that had always made him feel that no matter how bad things were, he’d somehow miraculously know how to make it alright again.

“I’m sorry, Martin. I was supposed to call you as soon as you had landed, but the cabinet...” There was a sigh at the other end of the line. “Well, you know how it is.”

Martin didn’t, but he nodded nevertheless, despite that Mycroft couldn’t see it.

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

“It’s– Is it true?” Martin finally managed to make words come out of his mouth. “What the– the papers say? He’s d-dead?”

There was pause again and when Mycroft replied, there was weight unlike anything he’d ever heard in his brother’s voice. “Yes.”

“B-but why..?” Martin cried. “How..? Why?! Why..?”

“James Moriarty”, his brother grimly replied. “I’m not entirely familiar with all that happened between him and Sherlock, but it was their final confrontation.”

“He made him do it”, Martin immediately said. “Sherlock, he– he wouldn’t have...”

“Yes”, Mycroft agreed.

The silence dragged on until Martin found his voice again. “What about Moriarty?” He was almost afraid to hear the answer.

“Dead, almost certainly. The blood and brain pieces at the scene certainly suggest so, but we’re running a DNA test on those. No body has turned out so far.”

Martin wiped his eyes with his free hand, nodding to Mycroft’s words. He wasn’t sure what to think or if he was happy to hear Moriarty was likely to be dead. He didn’t even know that much about the said man, only what he’d seen on TV and read on the news. Sherlock never talked about him, not even when he’d asked. He’d said the less Martin knew, the safer he was, so Martin had not pressed the subject. He’d got the impression that even though Sherlock acted unmoved by his new arch enemy, behind his veneer was genuine fear towards this man known as James Moriarty.

Vaguely, he realised his eyes were tearing up again. “Are you sure it’s really him?” he asked, biting his lip to will himself not to sob into the phone. Mycroft really didn’t need to hear how pathetic, small and alone he felt right now.

Mycroft immediately picked up what he meant. As expected. “Yes.”

“But that woman– I read the blog, she faked it, too! Maybe Sherlock–”

“Martin”, Mycroft gently, but firmly interrupted. “I’ve been to the morgue. I’m having his DNA tested as well, but it was Sherlock. I know my brother when I see him.”

“But–”

“I’m sorry, Martin. You weren’t contacted or asked to identify him because we’re not officially related, but I can arrange it for you if you want to see him.”

Martin shuddered so violently at the thought he nearly dropped the phone. “N-no, I– I trust you. I–I don’t think I could–”

He couldn’t make the words come out and he found himself sobbing again, so he shoved his fist in his mouth to silence himself. He didn’t want Mycroft to hear him break down like this.

“Where are you, Martin?” There was a familiar, concerned big brother note in Mycroft’s voice.

“Home”, he managed to gasp.

“Stay there. I’ll send someone to get you.”

“W-what? No”, Martin blurted out. “No, I’ve got a van job today and– and I’m flying to Edinburgh tomorrow...”

“You’re not in shape to fly. Come to London.”

“But I’ve got things to do!” Martin exclaimed, since it all suddenly felt very, very important. But he knew Mycroft wouldn’t understand. “I-I’ll call you later.”

“Mart–” But he didn’t hear the the rest of it because he ended the call. Mycroft called him back immediately, but Martin cut the call before it went to the voice mail. He couldn’t take it right now. He’d call back later. Maybe.

In the end, he didn’t sleep at all. He wasn’t even entirely sure what he did all day, but the hours just seemed to disappear and he found himself changing into his Icarus Removals shirt after what felt like couple of minutes after talking with Mycroft, who had given up on calling after Martin had rejected his call for the fifth time. He had sent a message, but Martin hadn’t read it yet.

Douglas had called soon after. Undoubtedly he had read the news by now, too. Martin let it go to voice mail and didn’t listen the message. After that was Arthur. He called a few times and once it was clear even to him that Martin wasn’t answering, he’d texted.
    
    
    From: Arthur
    We saw the news. Are
    you alright, skip?
    Arthur Shappey

Snorting miserably at the signature Martin deleted the message without bothering to reply. There’d been a call from his mum, and he’d somehow mustered enough strength to text her he was alright and that he didn’t want to talk right now. Caitlin sent a message, too, but he didn’t reply, trusting his mother to spread the word. Simon tried calling, nevertheless.

He only had one job for the late afternoon, requiring him to move furniture from another part of the town to another, but since his van was small, it took him three goes to have all the boxes and movables from the address A to the address B.

It helped, though. The physical work made him forget about Sherlock, but as soon as he sat behind the wheel it hit again and he had to concentrate on staying on the road and going to the right direction while the thought of his now dead brother brought tears into his eyes. He tried to listen to the radio, but then the news started to talk of Sherlock and how he’d been proved to have been a fake, Martin had shouted at the device angrily and shut it off. He was still teary eyed when waiting for his client to sign the bill despite his best efforts to look presentable. It was just like him to fail at something as simple as that. 

“Are you...” the woman started before handing him the clipboard back. She let out a quiet, nervous giggle. “I’m sorry if I’m a little presumptuous, but...are you alright? You don’t look alright.”

She looked at him with concerned green eyes, her brows furrowed in worry. Any other other time Martin would have flushed red from embarrassment, having a relatively attractive woman, such as his client was, to look at him so intensively, but now it took him all his will power to not burst into tears in front of this stranger. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine”, he hurried to say. “Just...fine, really. Really. Fine.” 

His client nodded, but he could see from her expression that he wasn’t convincing her. He sifted his eyes away from her, not quite knowing why he decided to continue. “It’s just that...my brother.”

Martin swallowed back his tears. “He–he died.” 

“Oh my god”, she gasped and Martin flinched. He really, really didn’t need her pity right now. Why had he said it loud? What the hell was wrong with him!?

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know... God, shouldn’t you have...canceled or something?”

Martin shook his head. “T-thanks for choosing Icarus Removals”, he choked, quickly turning around and making a hasty escape to his van. His hands were shaking again, and after a only a view roads from the house he had to pull aside to catch his breath and bat away the tears before he could start the engine again.

It was already dark when he got back, had been for a while. There were lights in the windows, so at least the students were home. It wasn’t surprising by any means, but Martin didn’t want to meet anyone. While the students didn’t know he and Sherlock Holmes were related, it was entirely possible they might have picked up the likeness.

Surprisingly few did, despite their nearly identical facial structure. Usually only people who either knew him or Sherlock mistook them for each other. Different skin and hair colour and slightly different coloured eyes apparently fooled many, though it probably had more to do with how they held themselves. Sherlock had always been confident and slightly arrogant in the way he presented himself, whereas Martin was horribly awkward and anxious. It certainly didn’t help that he was nearly a head shorter than his brother.

The keys rattled loudly as Martin attempted to get in unnoticed. All he wanted was to get a long, hot shower and sleep and hope everything would prove to have been just a nightmare when he woke up. Of course he wasn’t that lucky. He never was.

“Martin!”

He grimaced slightly at the voice of Sahla. She was a petite young woman, a third year student like the rest of the students at the house were. She stood in the doorway to their shared living room, a worried expression all over her face. Somehow, she knew.

Before Martin could reply, another voice called out to him, this one familiar, too. His shoulders slumped as Douglas emerged from the living room. “Where the hell have you been?”

“I had a van job, I told you”, Martin spoke between gritted teeth. Could his day get any worse? “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Checking on _you_ , of course! You’re not answering your phone.”

“I turned it off”, he said, trying to evade his First Officer’s eyes. “Please... I-I don’t want to talk“, he paused to swallow in attempt to hold back the tears that again threatened to fill his eyes, “about any of it.”

Sahla still stood in the doorway, biting her lower lip nervously, eyes darting from him to Douglas and back. “I should probably leave you two alone”, she murmured uneasily, looking at Douglas for approval. The older man nodded very slightly and Sahla slipped away to her room, leaving Martin alone with him.

Martin didn’t know where to look, so he bit his lip and concentrated on looking at the umbrella holder in the corner. His fists were clenched into tight balls, nails digging into his palms. Of all the people, why did it have to be Douglas?

“Did Mycroft send you?” he managed to ask after a moment of silence that could have been cut with a knife.

“Who?” Douglas looked genuinely taken aback.

“Never mind. If he didn’t, why are you here?”

“I told you, I’m checking on you! What were you thinking, driving around with your van like that? You’re clearly not alright or fit to drive!” He sounded almost angry.

“I. Had. A. Job”, Martin spelled out in a frustrated fit, glaring at him furiously.

Douglas merely shook his head, beckoning him to follow him to the living room. Martin made a half frustrated, half sobbing noise, but followed and slumped down on the beaten leather armchair closest to the door. “What do you want?”

“I’m worried about you, we all are”, Douglas said, lowering himself to the equally beaten sofa with a dated flower pattern. “It’s all over the news.”

“I know”, Martin choked, tilting his head upwards and blinking against the tears. The ceiling had been painted white three years ago when the previous students left, but it now had odd patterns of splashed drinks from the parties held within the past years. How did they even manage to spill beer so that it stained the ceiling? He’d be painting it again soon when his current students would permanently move out. Making small repairs in the house brought him much needed extra money. Or cuts to the rent. Soon the college would close for summer. His students would be gone, too, once they’d find new lodgings or finish with their part time jobs. By autumn he’d have new students to keep him company.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t believe a thing they say about him.”

To his own surprise, Martin laughed. It was a bitter, sad attempt of a laugh, but it bubbled out of his throat nevertheless. “He wasn’t a fake”, he nearly sobbed.

“Yes. I think I just agreed with that.”

But Martin was still half laughing, half sobbing: “They’re all lies. He’s not a fake, he would never– he’d never–”

 _Oh god..._ He was about to have his second breakdown today. And of all the people it had to be in front of Douglas. He’d never live this down.

He desperately tried to find something, anything to say instead of crying. He spotted the copy of The Sun Douglas apparently had brought with him.

“He _hates_ that picture”, he managed to say almost coherently. “He hates that fucking deerstalker. People thought it was funny, but he hates it.”

Douglas let him ramble on about the hat, silently watching his every move.

“An-and they– now everyone is going to remember him as a fake detective in a funny hat! It’s not fair!” he yelled, kicking the small, tall coffee table to channel his anger at something. It toppled over with a audible thud. 

“Oh, god, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Martin hadn’t even noticed himself getting up. He looked at Douglas and his face flushed red as he realised what kind of a fit he’d just had.

“Sorry, sorry”, he muttered, hurriedly setting the table back the way it was.

“It’s quite alright”, the First Officer said softly.

Martin didn’t look at him, hands still hovering at the edges of the table. “I–I think you should...go. Please, Douglas. I just want to go to sleep. See you tomorrow at the airfield.”

Douglas sighed heavily. “Martin, you’re not flying tomorrow.”

“What?! No, of-of course I’m flying tomorrow. Who else would?”

He was offered a nonchalant shrug. “It’s just Edinburgh, technically I could fly there on my own.”

“No-no, what about– No, I’m flying. I’m _definitely_ flying tomorrow.”

“No, you’re not.” Douglas’s tone left no room for arguments. “You’re not fit to fly. Carolyn’s already asked Herc and he’s called in sick on Air Caledonia so that he can fill in for you.”

“B-but– Herc..? _You’d_ fly with _Herc_?”

“Yes... So do me a favour and respect my sacrifice by taking your time at least until your brother’s funeral.”

“But–”

“No”, Douglas cut him firmly. “We’re not arguing this. You _won’t_ fly tomorrow and that’s _final_.”

“B-but Carolyn–”

“Knows the situation and agrees that it’s better you take a week off.”

“You _can’t_ have Herc fly for me for a week!”

“He’s already agreed to. Besides, it’s only Edinburgh and Vilnius.” Douglas inhaled deeply and utilised the gentlest tone he had. “Martin, please. You, if anyone, should realise that a person as shaken as you’re right now _shouldn’t_ fly.”

Martin drew a shallow, shaky breath. Of _course_ he knew what Douglas meant. But it was just today, he’d be better composed tomorrow. He’d be better as soon as he’d sit at the controls. He didn’t get a chance to say any of that when the house’s phone started ringing in the corridor.

They heard Sahla answer it after two rings and Martin relaxed his shoulders a bit. After few moments of trying to listen her murmured words, he started to say: “Please, Douglas. Just–”

“Martin.” Sahla tiptoed to the door and looked uncertainly at him. “It’s for you.”

“Me?” he blinked. “Who is it?”

“I don’t know. I asked, but he just said ‘a concerned party’ and asked me to get you.”

“I know who it is”, Martin grunted in defeat. “Fine, I’ll talk to him.”

Douglas followed him to the corridor. During the two and a half years they’d known each other, he’d never seen Martin as shaken as this. It was understandable, of course, but unsettling nevertheless. He was sort of a cry baby at times and Douglas would have been lying to himself had he claimed he didn’t enjoy making fun of the younger man, but this certainly wasn’t the time. And he was genuinely worried about him, ever since he’s spotted the news on TV. It was quite clear that Martin adored his brother.

He had tried calling Martin, and then Carolyn, when the Captain hadn’t answered his bloody phone. But Arthur had had no better luck in reaching him, so eventually they’d agreed on phone that Douglas would be the one to go check on Martin. He’d picked up the stupid newspaper on his way. Unfortunately, when he arrived, Martin had already left and the students (Robert and Hannah at the time) had not known where Martin was, apart from that he had a van job. Hannah had politely kept him company for the first hour and a half, and Sahla had replaced her later.

“Fine, I’m not”, Martin was saying to the phone, clearly still angry at the situation.

“Fine... No, no I’m _not_ coming tonight!” The man, whoever he was, said something causing Martin to scowl. “I just want to get some sleep”, he all but whined. “No, I’ll drive myself.”

He listened what the person at the other end had to say. “Fine, I’ll take the train then”, he consented, but the other person still appeared to press him.

“I’m not coming tonight!”

Martin’s eyes darted to the ceiling and he sighed heavily. “I’ll get there tomorrow. I promise.”

Something was said at the other end and a tiny smile crossed Martin’s lips. “Night...”

Douglas’s eyebrow darted up in curiosity as soon as Martin lowered the earpiece.

“My brother”, he sighed.

“What, Simon?” The little Douglas had heard of the brother Martin had mostly grown up with hadn’t really painted a picture of a man who’d care much for the suicide of Sherlock Holmes. Or Martin, for the record.

“God, no”, Martin blurted. “No, my-my other brother.”

“ _Other brother_?” Douglas echoed. As far as he knew, there were only Simon and Sherlock, the latter one just been reported to have jumped off a bloody hospital roof...

“Mycroft”, the young Captain repeated the odd name from before. “Sherlock’s brother. I mean, well, he’s my brother as well, though we...we’ve never been very close.”

 _Oh..._ Not really knowing what else to say, Douglas settled for simple: “I see.”

Martin bit his lip, uneasily running his hand through the auburn hair. “Listen, Douglas... I know you’re trying to help and I appreciate it, but... Please, could you just...go? Right now I just want to...” He paused and liked his lips. “I need to be on my own for a while. Please.”

“Alright”, Douglas promised softly, placing his hand on Martin’s shoulder. He gave it an awkward squeeze, attempting to somehow reassure him. “I’m so sorry, Martin.”

Martin nodded, but didn’t look him in the eye. “Yeah... Me, too.”

“You’re going to see this Mycroft tomorrow?”

The Captain hummed in agreement. When he spoke, his voice was horribly flat, nearly void of any emotion. “He lives in London. I’ll be back after the funeral. They’re burying him quickly because of all the media attention. Mycroft said he’ll keep the press away.”

“I’ll pass the message to Carolyn. Goodnight, Martin.”

“Goodnight.” He hesitated a few seconds. “Douglas..? I... Thank you.”

Douglas’ lips curled into a tight, yet gentle smile. “Anytime, Captain.”

* * *

London was just like Martin remembered it to be. Just...everything seemed to matter less. It literally hurt to see the new headlines destroying what was left of Sherlock’s legacy, so he tried to hurry past them, attempting not to look at them. As promised, Mycroft’s PA was waiting for him with a car.

“This way, Mr. Crieff.” The woman led him to the black car that much have cost more than...a flight on G-ERTI or something similar.

She sat at the backseats with him, but for once, Martin was too distracted with something else to be too flustered in the presence of a woman.

After a while of silence, he attempted to make conversation: “Um... I’m Martin. Martin Crieff.”

She smiled without taking her eyes off of her phone. “Yes. I know.”

“Oh... Um, I’m a Captain, actually”, he said and cleared his throat to clarify: “Of an aeroplane.”

“I know”, she simply repeated.

“Oh, o-okay. I guess Mycroft would have told you. Sorry. What’s your name?”

“Anthea.”

“Anthea? Wow, really? That’s a very unusual name..! N-not that it’s a b-bad thing, no! I’ve just never heard a name like that before, that’s all. It pretty, works well for a pretty lady like you. Oh god, no, I didn’t mean to sound like I was flirting, because I wouldn’t want to flirt with you. Wait, no, I didn’t mean it like that! I could definitely flirt with you, but I-I’m just not in the mood right now. I mean it’s not a good time. Oh god, that sounded like–”

“It’s not my real name”, she interrupted, finally turning to look at him. Martin shut his mouth awkwardly and she smiled at him gently. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Such simple words, yet they were capable of crumbling down the world around him. “Thank you”, he whispered, quickly looking away so she would not see his tears.

Anthea turned her attention back to the mobile. “Mr. Holmes will see you in the evening. I’m taking you for a lunch now, and then to Mr. Holmes’s house. Unless there is somewhere else you wish to go.”

The “lunch” turned out to be a three course meal at a lavish hotel that made Martin hope he’d be wearing his uniform instead of old jeans and a T-shirt. He was certain everyone was giving him disapproving looks, but Anthea, who somehow noticed this despite seemingly giving her constant attention to her phone assured him it was alright. They were expected. And right she was. They were escorted to a private dining room, and even while eating she still kept an eye on the mobile, occasionally abandoning her meal to presumably reply emails. Martin didn’t ask. It wasn’t his business and he was fairly certain she wouldn’t tell anyway.

The car took them to Mycroft’s house, but after taking his bag inside he immediately realised he couldn’t stay there, not without anything to do. So instead he asked if Anthea would drop him off somewhere. It didn’t really matter where. She smiled knowingly, handing him an Oyster card and a limitless black credit card. She let him out near Westminster Bridge, apparently on her way to the Houses of Parliament.

Martin wandered aimlessly for several hours, hopping on a bus a few times. Might as well see the main attractions of London, now that he was here and had time to kill. Sherlock’s face still decorated most of the newspapers wherever he looked. It seemed to be impossible to escape. Yet no one mistook him for him, but that was to be expected, he supposed. Martin could count the times he’d been mistaken for Sherlock by a random person with one hand. Despite the similar face, the rest of them couldn’t have been more different. Martin had often found himself wishing he’d have even one tenth of Sherlock’s confidence. Maybe then people would take him more seriously.

It was nearing five o’clock and he found himself in Hyde Park, when his phone suddenly buzzed in his pocket, indicating a received message. His initial thought was it to probably be Arthur. Both Carolyn and Douglas preferred to call. Mycroft even more so. To his surprise, the text was from an unknown number.
    
    
    Hello. You texted
    Sherlock Holmes two
    days ago. Your number
    was saved as MC, so I
    don’t know who you
    are, but I guess you
    knew him..? My name
    is John Watson. He
    was my flatmate.

Martin’s heart skipped a beat. He knew John relatively well from what he’d heard from Sherlock and read from the man’s blog, but the doctor probably didn’t know him. Sherlock rarely talked about his personal life or family with anyone else than Martin. And he most certainly never mentioned him if it could be avoided. His thumb hovered over the button for several seconds until he hit reply.

 _My name is Martin Crieff_ , he typed. _Sherlock is my–_

He had to erase what he’d typed and correct: _Sherlock was my brother. But he probably never mentioned me._

He hit ‘send’ quickly before he’d lose his nerve. Not even a minute had passed when the old Nokia started ringing. Incoming call from the same unknown number.

“H-hello..?”

“Mr. Crieff?” an urgent voice inquired. “It’s John Watson.”

“Um, yes, Martin. Hi.”

“Hi.” The voice at the other end softened a bit before turning into cold and suspicious: “No, no he never mentioned you. How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“I-I guess you could always, um, ask Mycroft”, Martin stammered uncertainly. “Or– or...um...well, Mycroft would be the best person to ask, actually.”

The doctor seemed to consider his words and the line was silent for what seemed like minutes. Then he heard a sigh and a soft laugh.

“I believe you. If you’re ready to suggest Mycroft to vouch for you, I guess I can assume you’re not lying.”

Martin let out a breath he hadn’t notice he’d been holding. He chuckled. “Yeah, I don’t think I’d dare to tell you ask Mycroft if I wasn’t sure he’d be on my side.”

The shocked gasp from John nearly made Martin drop his phone. “Sherlock?!”

“W-what..?” Martin panicked. Shit. It was his voice. When he wasn’t mumbling or stuttering or being awkward it sounded nearly exactly the same as Sherlock’s. Especially on phone.

“N-no, we-we just have similar voices”, he hurried to explain, his voice again taking a higher pitch. “Similar face, too, actually. B-but that’s pretty much where the similarities...end”, he finished awkwardly.

The line was silent for so long that Martin got afraid John had cut the call, but right when he was about to ask if the man was still there, he heard a muffled sob.

“Sorry, sorry”, John apologised. “I–” He cleared his throat. “Sherlock never talked about having another brother. But I guess it’s what he would do. He hardly ever mentioned Mycroft.”

“It-it’s not like that.”

Martin didn’t want John to think his relationship with Sherlock had been similar to Mycroft’s. “He said he didn’t want to get me involved. With anything bad. We really, really look the same to some people and he...he didn’t want anyone mistaking me for him.”

Yet another silence lingered between them until John again broke it: “Were you close?”

Martin smiled, but involuntarily the tears were finding their way in his eyes again. He could hear John was battling with a similar problem.

“He texted me often”, he offered for the lack of better explanation. They were close, of course they were, but perhaps not in the normal way. When were things ever normal with Sherlock?

“He texted you right before–”

Martin knew what John had been about to say, but neither of them was willing to end the sentence.

“Yes”, Martin choked. God, and how had he replied? His brother had sent him his apologies perhaps right before stepping over the edge to his death. Had he had time to see Martin’s reply? He hoped not. He didn’t want his last words for his brother to be an accusing ‘what did you do now?’

“Where are you?” John suddenly asked.

“I’m in London, actually”, he replied, grateful for the doctor to have changed the subject. “For the...well, you know. Having a walk right now. I just...I don’t really know what to do, but I can’t stay still. I’m in Hyde Park.”

“Really? Which end? Have you ever been to Baker Street?”

Martin shook his head before replying. “East. And no, no I haven’t. The last time I saw him in London he was still living at Montague Street.”

“Listen, this is a bit sudden, but... I’m at work now, but I’m finishing here. Not like I’ve been able to do much anyway. I’d like to meet you. Would you...fancy a dinner or something?”

Martin briefly panicked about the idea of a restaurant before remembering about Mycroft’s card. “Um, sure. Sure. I-I would actually like to meet you, too. Very much. Sherlock’s always talking about you.”

“He talks about me?” John gasped. “No, we can talk about that face to face. Do you know how to go to the flat from there?”

“I think so, yes.” He had actually entertained the idea of going there earlier, but he hadn’t really known what to do once he’d get there. The idea of just knocking the door hadn’t seemed like a good idea.

“Great. I’ll call Mrs. Hudson –she’s the landlady, and warn her that you’re coming. I’ll be there soon. I know a nice Italian.”

They bid each other quick farewells and Martin set his course for Baker Street. The door was easy to find once he was there and had for some odd reason the letter B attached to it despite there apparently was at least an A as well. The landlady nearly fainted upon seeing him and then proceeded on scolding him for the stunt he’d pulled. It took him a several times to assure her he wasn’t Sherlock, but indeed the brother John had told her about.

“You look so much like him”, she sighed, holding his face between her hands briefly. Martin didn’t know what to say. Apologise, maybe? She led him upstairs to the famous flat 221B Baker Street and left him waiting alone, asking if he wanted a cup of tea before leaving.

“O-only if it’s not too much of a trouble...”

She seemed delighted to have something to do, muttering curses about the mess Sherlock had made in the flat before disappearing back downstairs. Not knowing what else to do, Martin sat down to wait. It didn’t take long for him to hear someone walk up the stairs and open the door. It was John Watson.

“Sh–” he closed his eyes to collect himself. “Christ, you really look like him.” It didn’t really help that Martin was sitting in Sherlock’s chair, though he was quickly up to greet him. They exchanged the expected pleasantries awkwardly. His handshake wasn’t firm like Sherlock’s and knowing how tall Sherlock and Mycroft were, John was surprised to notice Martin was only a little taller than he himself was.

“Are you hungry? I was thinking we could go right away.”

“Um, Mrs. Hudson said something about tea...”

“We can have tea later.” John was already halfway out. He really, really didn’t want to stay in the flat any longer than he had to. On his way he knocked the landlady’s door, bluntly informing her Martin wasn’t staying for tea.

Martin followed John in silence. He avoided looking at people in the suddenly thickened crowd of commuters flooding the streets. He nearly wished he wouldn’t have agreed to this. He didn’t feel ready to face the man he’d heard so much about from his brother, not now when the said brother was dead.

The owner of the Italian restaurant John led Martin into greeted him passionately. John introduced him as Angelo as soon as the man had let go of John’s shoulders and stopped his “John Watson! I’m so glad to see you here. It’s terrible news, I don’t believe a word the papers say. No, I’m ripping off each page that dares to insult his memory! I won’t have it in my restaurant!”

“Dio mio”, he gasped as soon as he payed attention to Martin’s face after John had turned the man attention to him by quietly informing him it was Sherlock’s brother he had brought with him. “You’re the spitting image.”

Angelo led them to a quiet corner table. “Anything on the menu, free of charge”, he reminded.

Martin couldn’t help but to feel his face lit up by the offer of free meal, despite while walking into the restaurant he had been reminding himself he didn’t need to worry about the cost with Mycroft’s credit card in his wallet.

The waiter, Billy, as Martin learnt when John thanked him, brought them glasses of water. The young man murmured his condolences and slipped away to let them flip through the menus. John already knew what to order, but he waited until Martin had decided before waiving Billy back. They hadn’t yet exchanged a word since leaving Baker Street. While waiting for their food and eating they only exchanged a few pleasantries. John told Martin in a flat tone how he’d met Sherlock after being invalided from Afghanistan. In exchange Martin told him about being an airline Captain from Fitton, though for the first time in his life he felt no joy in the words. Silence seemed to stretch between them after both of them had finished with their plates of Angelo’s special pastas.

Someone had left The Sun on the neighbouring table’s seat. John picked it up, but true to his words, Angelo had indeed ripped off each page covering the sensational articles of Sherlock’s death and career. Sighing he put it back.

“Are you staying with Mycroft?” John asked. He knew he was probably stirring up things he shouldn’t have, but he couldn’t help himself.

Martin, completely occupied by staring at a hanging picture on the wall jumped. “Yeah”, he admitted. “I guess so. I’m not sure. It could be he’s booked me a hotel room.” He blinked and turned back to John. “That’s probably more likely, actually.”

John’s expression darkened. “I wouldn’t take that offer if I were you.”

“Why not?” Martin looked genuinely puzzled. “I-I mean I know that Mycroft’s house isn’t actually that big, I get it if he doesn’t want me there.”

John frowned, ignoring most of his nervous ramble. “Haven’t you read the papers?”

“No”, the other man shook his head. He cast his eyes downward miserably. “I don’t think I can.”

“Maybe you should.” John’s face turned rigid and he folded his arms against his chest. “They tell all about Sherlock’s past. Stuff about his childhood and teenage years.”

“W-what?”

“Moriarty used all that to smear his name. I didn’t give that information to the papers. I didn’t even know any of it. Sherlock never talks about things like childhood. I know for a fact that he doesn’t have many friends or relatives who could have done that. I doubt you did.”

“No, of-of course not”, Martin stumbled with his words. What was John talking about? What was he implying? He felt dizzy. Was John saying someone had deliberately sold out his brother’s past to aid a man who quite possibly, if Sherlock was to be believed, was the most dangerous criminal the world had ever seen?

“Moriarty shouldn’t even have known about me”, he gasped. _Oh god._ Did Moriarty know about him, too? Would Moriarty be coming after him? No, no, Moriarty was dead, Mycroft said so.

“So you didn’t and neither did I. That really leaves only one person who would have known enough about Sherlock”, John said grimly. “And he already admitted he did.”

“You don’t mean–” It took Martin a second to find his voice again and dare to voice the horrifying doubt suddenly gnawing him. “...Mycroft?”

“Yes. That’s exactly who I mean. He played some sick quid pro quo with that lunatic and now Sherlock is dead because of him.” The end came out as an angry snarl and made Martin flinch on his seat. “He had Moriarty locked up and he let him go, knowing full well he’d be going after Sherlock.”

“No...” Martin chocked. “I... No, he–he wouldn’t..! I know they don’t get along very well, but Mycroft adores him! He’d never let anything bad happen to him. I–I know him!”

“Clearly the Mycroft you know isn’t the Mycroft I know”, John said bitterly. “He admitted it. He told me he’d been exchanging Sherlock’s life story to whatever Moriarty had to say.”

Martin buried his face in his hands in desperation. He had no idea what to believe. He didn’t want to believe the things John was telling him. Mycroft couldn’t have, he couldn’t have..! Why would have he done it, why would have he given Moriarty anything to use against Sherlock?

“It’s all over the papers”, John said softly. “I’m sorry. But I thought you ought to know. I wouldn’t count on Mycroft telling this all to you himself.”

“I–” Martin nearly sobbed. He ran his hands through his hair and blinked repeatedly. “I don’t know what to think.”

“You could stay at Baker Street”, John offered. He suddenly found himself wishing Martin would say yes. The silence he would have to face upon his return to home felt like a hanging weight over his shoulders. The flat felt horribly empty and _wrong_.

“You can have Sherlock’s bed or the sofa. Whichever you prefer.”

“I’ll think about it”, Martin promised, but he already knew he would decline. He didn’t want to stay in Sherlock’s home if Sherlock himself wouldn’t be there. “It was nice to get to meet you finally”, he said after a while. “Sherlock...he mentioned you often.”

John cast his eyes down briefly, then pulled his mouth to thin line before saying: “He never told me about you.”

“I’m sorry. He didn’t want to get me involved”, Martin said miserably. “Sometimes people, stupid people, he’d say, mistake me for him. Can you imagine?”

Now that he’d met both of the brothers, John couldn’t. Their faces may have been nearly identical, but otherwise they were like night and day.

All conversations seemed to die before they even properly started and there was no mention of the promised tea when they finally seemed to have found the mutual strength to leave the restaurant.

“I’ll see you at the funeral, then?”

John gave him a stiff nod. “Think about what I said about Mycroft.”

Martin couldn’t look at him in the eye. “I will, but...he’s still my brother.”

John clenched his jaw, but didn’t say anything further. They bid their farewells soon after, leaving to opposite directions. Martin didn’t really have a good idea where he was, but he figured he’d just hail a cab once he’d get tired of walking. Right now he felt like he needed the fresh air to clear his head. 

* * *

It was already nearing ten when Mycroft Holmes finally walked into his Pall Mall flat. Martin could hear him make his way through the corridor towards the dark living room in which he’d been sitting alone, curtains drawn to cover the windows, ever since he’d returned. In his hands, he clutched a copy of The Sun he’d picked on his way.

The footsteps stopped briefly behind the door before Mycroft opened it and walked in. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

Martin swallowed and hung his head. He hadn’t seen Mycroft for four years. He’d thought over and over again what he wanted to say, what questions he needed to ask, but no words would leave his mouth.

Mycroft switched the lights on, placed his briefcase on the side table and loosened his tie. “Hello, Martin. You look well”, he called from the doorway despite he must have seen Martin had been crying.

No reply came, so Mycroft went on to remove the pocket watch and stripped off his jacket. Martin glared at him as he lay the jacket on the arm-rest of the sofa and sat down.

“I met John Watson”, Martin finally said, dragging himself up from the arm chair. “We had dinner.”

Mycroft avoided his eyes, preferring to look the pocket watch he seemed to be toying in his hand. Martin had never seen his big brother behaving this way, had never seen him so...so...

“He said you helped him.”

“We didn’t part in the best possible terms”, was all Mycroft said, still turning the watch around in his hand.

“He said–” Martin’s voice nearly broke when his brother finally looked at him. “He said you helped Moriarty! That you– you told him everything about Sherlock.”

“Yes.” Mycroft’s tone was neutral, but strained. It was like part of his mask has suddenly fallen. He looked tired. “I did.”

“How could you?!” Martin screamed at him and threw The Sun at Mycroft’s feet. “How could you do that to him?! He was your brother, how could you betray him like that?!”

Tears rolled down his cheeks, but he could hardly care. Mycroft still sat unmoving like a statue, his stony eyes now fixed to Martin.

“You gave that lunatic everything he needed to destroy Sherlock! John told me about the article, too. I bought it and read it. You told him about the bee farm in Sussex. Did you tell him about me, too? Did you mention _I_ was there, too?”

Mycroft snapped shut the lid of his watch and shoved it into his trouser pocket. “Are you quite finished?”

Martin swallowed back tears and wiped his eyes. He sniffled. “No.”

He had never stood up against Mycroft, but now he straightened his back and faced him despite his pounding heart and shaking hands. “No, I’m not finished. You betrayed Sherlock, _you let Moriarty kill him!_ ”

“That’s _enough_.” Mycroft stood up abruptly. He only needed to take a few quick steps to stand in Martin’s personal space, forcing Martin instinctively flinch back. He felt incredibly small and unimportant under his big brother’s cold, calculating stare. He had never seen his big brother so angry and his anger was perhaps the most terrifying thing he had ever experienced. Including furious CEO Carolyn Knapp-Shappey or landing on one engine in a crosswind in St. Petersburg only a few months ago.

“I did what I had to”, Mycroft said after a few silent seconds that seemed to have dragged on forever. His posture changed back to the cold, calculated veneer. “If you had to choose between the safety of every single citizen of this country and the life of your brother, which one would you choose? What is the right thing to do? It’s not an easy decision to go play quid pro quo with a man like James Moriarty, but I _will_ stand behind my decision.”

Martin hung his head and clenched his fists. He wanted to shout at Mycroft. He wanted to hit him in the face and call him a bastard, but he couldn’t. Mycroft was right, of course he was, and Martin knew it. Had probably known all along. One man’s life was nothing compared to the entire nation, not even if it was his own brother. He wanted to yell at Mycroft, he wanted to blame someone so badly just to get out the nauseating pain he felt inside each time he thought of the screaming headlines accusing Sherlock for being a fake, but no words left his lips.

He was a terrible brother, he hadn’t given a single thought about Mycroft or what he might have been feeling or what kind of a horrible decision he had been made to make. He should have been proud of Mycroft. The one person who could push aside all his personal feelings in order to make the decision that was best for the greater good. He should have been proud, but it just hurt so _damn much_.

He knew he was sobbing again. God, he was so pathetic and he felt so small and helpless, and he should probably just leave before he’d humiliate himself any further. He was about to step away, when he was pulled into an unexpected strong embrace. Mycroft’s left arm was wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer. His right hand held his little brother’s head against his chest and gently stroked the ginger hair a few times. Martin could smell the expensive cologne even through his runny nose.

Mycroft’s hold was stiff as if he didn’t quite know what he was doing, but Martin found himself clinging to him. It had been so long since he had been physically this close to another human being, and god, he couldn’t even remember the last time someone had properly hugged him. Or did Arthur’s occasional surprise quick hugs count? Why was he even thinking of Arthur? His mum had hugged him the last time they parted, but that was different. This– this was like holding onto a life jacket in a stormy sea.

Mycroft pulled him gently to the sofa, not letting go as they sat down. He let Martin lean and sob against him. His arms felt firm and safe, they made Martin feel like a child again, even though they had never done anything like this before. Mycroft had always been that unreachable, stoic existence he and Sherlock used to prank just to see if they could make him lose his cool 

What Martin did not see were Mycroft’s eyes glimmering as he kept stroking his brother’s hair and stared at the far wall. Unlike Sherlock, he had never had a close relationship with Martin. In a way their relationship was even more complex than the one he’d had with Sherlock. Open hostility and mutual bickering was much easier to deal with than Martin’s awkwardness.

He could tell Martin had always wanted to know him better, had yearned for a closer relationship, but Mycroft had never known how to give him that. The gap between them was simply too wide, wider than the one between him a Sherlock. It wasn’t just the age difference, although seven years older than both of his brothers who got along together marvelously certainly had had an effect as well. It wasn’t even their backgrounds that were nearly night and day. It had never stopped Martin and Sherlock from bonding. The biggest problem was the inferiority complex Martin felt when faced with his elder brother.

Martin was not an idiot, but neither was he particularly clever. He’d always been clumsy and easily rattled. He was hopeless with words, even more so when compared to his brothers.

And so Mycroft had no idea of what to say. Perhaps words weren’t even needed in this rare moment of something intimate shared between them, even if it was grief. Instead of trying to find meaningless words of compassion, he just pulled Martin closer, letting his chin rest on the top of his brother’s head and simply held him for long minutes until the sobs, hitched breaths and desperate wails died down and his exhausted little brother fell asleep in his arms.

* * *

When Martin woke up, the room was already lit by forenoon sunlight. It took him a few half-awake seconds to remember he was at Mycroft’s flat, not in somewhere on the other side of the world in a hotel, and several more to remember how he had ended up spending his night on the sofa.

 _Oh god..._ He’d completely broken down in front of Mycroft. That was possibly worse than shedding tears in front of his First Officer.

No, Mycroft was definitely so much worse than Douglas. Like he hadn’t been pathetic enough already compared to the man Sherlock referred as ‘the British Government on two legs’. He’d made a complete fool out of himself.

Martin let the duvet covering him fall on the floor and sat up. The expensive looking sofa hadn’t been an ideal place to have a sleepover. He felt stiff and groggy as he let himself into the bathroom. The reflection that greeted him from the mirror wasn’t flattering. He looked downright horrible. His auburn curls where messy, his eyes red and puffy from crying and he was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Splashing cold water on his face helped a little.

He returned to the living room, unsure of what to do. The house seemed empty. Mycroft had probably left several hours ago and whatever amount of people he possibly employed didn’t seem to be present either. After some wandering around he found his cabin bag seemingly untouched in the corridor, proceeded to take a long, warm shower, shave and change his clothes. Soft, white towels had been left in clear sight, so he made a use of them. Fifty minutes later he emerged to the kitchen. There was a handwritten note on the table, but his stomach growled in protest, so Martin decided to grab something to eat before sitting down to read.

To his disappointment and utter bewilderment, Mycroft’s cupboards were nearly as empty as his own were. He found several expensive looking jars that looked like they’d been stored away years ago. But at least there was coffee. After brewing himself a cup he finally sat down and looked at the note. Not surprisingly, it was addressed to him, written in Mycroft’s elegant handwriting. His brother apologised for leaving early and that he had nothing to offer for breakfast. Instead he advised Martin to take a cab to the same hotel’s restaurant his PA had taken him yesterday upon his arrival.

_If there is anything else you require, use of my card._

He had also written the PAs number down, telling him to call her after he’d had his lunch. Martin glanced at his watch. Mycroft was correct, of course. It would hardly be a breakfast anymore, but it was now getting too late for a brunch as well.

He felt as out of place as he had the day before, but at least he was now wearing his best jeans with a proper looking, although cheap, shirt. Sherlock could have told with one look it was from Primark and cost him ten pounds, whereas his Dolce & Gabbana’s were worth several hundred each. Sherlock had never really cared for money. He’d probably just gone into a shop, told them to bring him whatever would fit and look presentable. His brother didn’t –hadn’t even known how to read the clothe sizes. It was ridiculous, really.

Martin had done as Mycroft had advised. Anthea had picked him up, and after the lunch she took him to a men’s wear shop, much to Martin’s surprise and embarrassment. Especially because looking at the price tags made him feel lightheaded. Anthea explained briefly that his brother had thought he needed a suit for the funeral, and when Martin protested that he had brought a suit, she gave him one sharp look over her phone. “My schedule is very busy, but I have cleared an hour for this because Mr.Holmes asked me to help you. Please don’t waste my time, Mr. Crieff.”

Less than an hour later he walked out with her, carrying a suit bag worth more money he’d seen in a while.

The driver then drove them back to Mycroft’s home. Anthea bid him goodbye for the day, leaving him alone for the rest of the day. He didn’ feel like going out anymore. The hours passed at torturous pace.

He tried to watch TV, but could not concentrate. He fumbled with his phone, wondering if he should contact John or Caitlin or mum or Arthur or even Douglas. He didn’t.

He stood in front of Mycroft’s dressing mirror, staring and judging himself with his teary eyes. He felt miserable. He looked miserable in his five year old jeans, worn and faded shirt, puffy eyes and thinning hair. And, god, why was he even thinking of his hair, or the lack of it, when his brother was lying dead at a morgue? To be buried tomorrow morning.

Mycroft arrived late as he had the previous night. It seemed he rarely spent any time at his rooms apart from sleeping. His older brother regretted he didn’t have any guest bed, but he gave Martin proper linen so that he could spend another night on the sofa. He offered to book him a hotel room instead for a more comfortable bed, but Martin declined. He didn’t want to be alone.

“Very well.”

“I-I can go to a hotel, too, if that’s better for you”, Martin stuttered awkwardly, suddenly realising that Mycroft may have been subtly hinting his house was too small for the two of them. “I mean, I don’t want to be any trouble or-or be in your way.”

“Nonsense. It’s late and you’re my brother”, Mycroft told very seriously. His eyes bore into him as he said: “You’re always welcome, and you only need to ask if you need my help.”

Martin bit his lip. He knew by help Mycroft meant financial help, and he wanted none of it. It must have shown on his face, but he said nothing.

“Thank you”, he whispered after several moments of uneasiness, clutching the cushion he’d been about to stuff inside a pillow case. Then Mycroft looked away to unfold the sheet and they exchanged no other words for the night except bid each other goodnight.

The funeral morning was sunny and bright. It felt wrong. Martin had hoped the light shower from last night would have continued throughout the day. It would have suited his mood better. Funerals weren’t supposed to be blessed with a great weather.

The black suit fit him perfectly just as it had in the shop. Somehow he had expected it’d look terrible on him on second fitting. That seemed to be the case whenever he bought new clothes. At the shop he thought it looked good, but he’d realise his mistake right after Douglas took one look at him. He was now wearing more than one months rent worth of fabric. And despite his worries, the suit definitely flattered him, highlighted all the right features. He might have even gone as far as saying it made him look handsome if wasn’t for the fact that he was dressed for a funeral. It was high quality, as expected of Mycroft. Expensive.

“Well chosen”, Mycroft commented upon entering the room, wearing black as well. He eyed his brother from head to toe approvingly.

“I guess so”, Martin muttered. He rubbed the sleeve between his fingers and wondered idly if it would be an insult to sell the suit on eBay afterwards. It wasn’t like he wanted to wear it ever again after this occasion.

“You can do whatever you want with it later.”

Martin jumped a little. Sometimes he could have sworn his Holmes brothers were psychics and able to read his mind. “How’d you..? Never mind.”

He lowered his eyes. When it came to him, Sherlock had always had the patience to explain how he saw the world, how all the tiny details were connected and formed a bigger picture. Mycroft wasn’t like that. Sherlock had always dismissed Martin’s praises as if they were annoying, as if it was obvious that what he did was brilliant and needed no acknowledging. Martin knew it wasn’t true. Sherlock’s eyes lit up in a whole new way. Martin wondered if that was how it was with John, too.

“You make it painfully obvious when you are thinking of your financial situation”, Mycroft offered a rare explanation and stepped to stand right behind Martin. Their eyes met through the mirror again.

“It suits you”, Mycroft murmured. “Keep it. Do whatever you like with it.”

“I don’t need your _charity_ ”, Martin growled under his breath, blushing from humiliation. He was in desperate need of money, of course he was with Carolyn not affording to pay him, but he still had his pride. He didn’t need his big brother to support him. He shouldn’t have felt ashamed by it, but he did.

“It’s not charity”, Mycroft replied, his tone suddenly gone cold. “The suit you brought with you was horrendous. I won’t have you shame our brother’s memory by wearing that.”

Martin gaped at him through the mirror. With Mycroft standing so close, their height difference made Martin look and feel like a teenager. But while his brother’s tone was nearly hospitable, Martin could see unusual fondness in his eyes.

“I–I know”, he whispered. It was the closest Mycroft could come to saying he cared and wanted to help without intruding. He felt grateful when Mycroft briefly squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. Martin’s lips curled up a little. It was just Mycroft’s way of saying he wanted to help without embarrassing him. 

“Thank you.”

* * *

Anthea sat in the front seat next to the driver while they were taken to the cemetery. There would be no ceremonies, eulogies, services or music. Strictly no viewing. Martin wouldn’t have wanted to see him anyway, not like that. He wanted to remember his brother as a brilliant man, sometimes filled with energy, sometimes beaten with boredom, but not as an unnaturally pale corpse with a smashed head.

If someone had something to say, they could say it after they’d lowered the coffin and started placing flowers. Sherlock would not have wanted anything he would have considered pointless and sentimental. Martin couldn’t help but to think he wouldn’t have cared for the large arrangement of white flowers sitting between him and Mycroft. Or the smaller one with red roses he was holding on his lap. Carolyn had arranged for it to be delivered, and the string attached to it had the names of his three friends from MJN Air. He appreciated the sentiment even though Sherlock would have probably scoffed at the idea of people he’d never even met sending flowers to his funeral.

There was also one from his mum, Caitlin and Simon. His family would not be attending. They hadn’t been in touch with the Holmes family in years, save from Simon, but Simon technically worked for Mycroft. It was all very hush-hush, and to be honest, seemed very boring to Martin despite Simon’s gloating and pride he took in his job.

Anthea was, true to her character, glued to the phone for the entire drive. Mostly she just typed, but at one point she talked quietly to the security arranged to keep the press away and talked something about flowers been delivered. Mycroft held onto his umbrella, eyes fixed to the back of the seat in front of him. Martin was left to fiddle with the flowers and look out the window. Incredible how little the world cared for their loss. Sherlock was still on the front page of every single tabloid paper.

It was a small scale funeral and Anthea did not follow them to the burial site. John and Mrs. Hudson were there already when he arrived with Mycroft. John hardly even acknowledged Mycroft’s presence, but introduced Martin to the remaining people he didn’t know. The first one was Detective Inspector Lestrade from New Scotland Yard, the second was Molly Hooper who worked at the St. Bart’s Hospital, the very building Sherlock had chosen as the site of his final confrontation with Moriarty. She was understandably shaken and spoke very little. He knew them both only through John’s blog and Sherlock’s words.

Lestrade gasped audibly upon seeing him. “Christ. John told me you look like him, but...” He shook his head in awe. “I wasn’t expecting– No, sorry. Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Martin, I mean Captain. I mean, not my name, but–” He drew a breath and tried to start again: ”Captain Martin Crieff. Nice to meet you. Sherlock often talked about you.”

“He did?” The man looked genuinely surprised.

“Um, of course... H-he often worked with you, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did. He just... Well, he never seemed like the type to socialise much or talk about other people.”

“I guess I’ve always been sort of an exception”, Martin said apologetically.

“He’s not that antisocial”, Molly commented. “He mentions a lot of people whenever he works– worked. Worked at-at Barts. Mainly John... Sorry. I should probably shut up.”

“No, no, no, you didn’t–” Martin caught a glimpse of John from the corner of his eye and shut up abruptly. “Um... I mean... Uh, I suppose he never mentioned me..?”

“No.”

Their conversation came to an uneasy end and they seemed to simultaneously decide to move towards the burial site. Mycroft had already gone and Martin could see him talk with two men who apparently were there to help with moving the coffin from the car nearby. Their small group didn’t really have enough people to do that. Even if Molly were to help (an idea Martin didn’t really approve) they were still short one person. Mrs. Hudson certainly could not be asked.

No one talked except quietly discussing which position to take while they moved and lowered the coffin. Molly and Mrs. Hudson stood and watched. Apart from the flowers they had just brought, there was a mountain of others waiting beside the temporary lid for the grave. They must have been the flowers Anthea mentioned.

Mrs. Hudson wept openly. She talked about Sherlock messing up her flat, moving and making noises at ungodly hours and how his clients often tended to be on the strange side.

Molly kept her face downcast. The flowers she laid on the temporarily cover on the grave where white, but Martin didn’t know what they were called, nor of the little blue ones amongst them. She said she would have wanted to read a poem, but the realised Sherlock would have thought it pointless, so instead she just said she’d miss him and that her work would be much duller now.

Lestrade kept it brief and professional, only stating that the press, his co-workers and bosses were wrong, and that he wouldn’t regret if it’d cost him his job. Many crimes would be left unsolved.

John wore a soldier’s mask the entire time. He didn’t shed a single tear and his voice didn’t waver when he told in a clear voice that Sherlock had been the best friend he’d ever had and that there was no way he’d ever believe the lies Moriarty had created. If anything, he would fight to clear his name.

That left only the remaining Holmes brothers. It felt like everyone was holding their breaths for what Mycroft would say or how he would act. His brother paid it no heed and laid the flowers unceremoniously next to Lestrade’s.

“We didn’t always get along”, he started, his eyes sweeping the few people attending, “but he was my brother and I would have never wished him such an end.” His tone was pleasant and casual, but Martin couldn’t tell whether the words were directed at him or John. Perhaps for both of them.

“May he finally rest in peace.”

Silence fell and Martin didn’t realise it was his turn until Mycroft cleared his throat pointedly.

“Uh, right”, he muttered under his breath and cleared his throat in turn. “I’ll read this first. It’s from my crew in Fitton”, he explained.

He swallowed down a lump and read: “We never had the chance to meet you, but from what we heard, you were absolutely b-brilliant. Let the skies be clear. With deepest sympathy; Douglas Richardson, Hercules Shipwright, Carolyn Knapp-Shappey and Arthur Shappey.” There was also a card with an otter on it. It made him smile a little. Arthur must have written it. It was a bit silly, but he liked it.

“And this one is from my family. It doesn’t really say anything, just–” he coughed and fumbled with his words. His hands shook a little. “In loving memory of Sherlock. We hope you are at peace. Love, Wendy, Simon and Caitlin Crieff.”

He nearly pronounced his sister’s name with a “kate” instead of her preferred “cat”. He placed the flowers next to the others and stood to address the small band of mourners hesitatingly: “I know none of you know me, since Sherlock never talked about me. But he was my brother, too, and– and as crazy as it might sound, we were close. And I miss him and I know how brilliant he was. He was not a _fake_.” The last word came out half sobbed, so he made an hasty escape back to his brother’s side.

Rest of the flowers weren’t from any of them. Molly started arranging them on the lid, reading out loud the cards and ribbons. Most were from former clients, one from Scotland Yard’s homicide department which caused Lestrade to grimace and John to clench his jaw. One name in particular caught Martin’s ear: Victor Trevor.

“Didn’t Victor want to come?” he whispered to Mycroft when Molly moved onto the next bouquet.

“He’s coming to the reception.”

The reception had been arranged by Mycroft as well. Martin couldn’t help but to think that Sherlock would have loathed the place, but said nothing. John had come, too. To tell the truth, Martin had expected him not to, but apparently he had decided to put aside his resentment for Sherlock’s sake. Of that, Martin was glad.

John’s attendance also served the purpose of telling apart the real past clients from the few members of press disguised as former clients. Martin ended up conversing with a man called Henry Knight. It took him an embarrassingly long time to remember he was the man he’d read about from John’s blog. They didn’t really have much in common from what he could tell, so it was a relief when someone suddenly tapped his shoulder.

“Martin!”

Martin turned abruptly, spilling his coffee as he did so. “Victor! Oh, god, sorry, sorry!”

Victor smiled. “Don’t worry, most of it got on the floor. My fault in the first place. You can have mine if you want to.”

Martin declined and introduced him to Henry and vice versa.

“Pleased to meet you. Were you Mr Holmes’s client as well?”

“Oh no”, Victor replied with a laugh. “My dog bit him and after some persistent talking, we became friends. Or at least I consider him a friend.”

“Right. A-a dog. Not really my thing”, Henry said apologetically.

“Oh right..! I thought your name sounded familiar. You’re the guy from _The Hounds of Baskerville_. From John’s blog!”

“Did you meet John yet?” Martin asked over Henry’s confirmation.

“Briefly at the door, yes. I don’t think he liked me. He was very suspicious when I told him I was friends with Sherlock. I don’t think he would have let me in if Mycroft hadn’t come to my rescue.”

“I’m sorry, I should have stayed at the door, too.”

“No, no, I can see why he’s suspicious. There was press outside”, he told, then turned to Henry. “Sorry, Henry, would you excuse us?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Henry exchanged quick goodbyes with Martin and left. Victor’s smile fell.

“It’s good to see you, Martin. Pity the occasion.”

Martin made an agreeing noise. It had been several years since he’d seen Victor. He hadn’t even been working with MJN at the time.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral. I wish... I wish I had kept in touch with him more often. I kept telling myself I should come to London to meet him, but now... Well.”

“I know”, Martin said quietly. “Me, too. I mean, yeah, we texted often. Sometimes he even called. But it’s been ages since I last saw him. Before he moved to Baker Street. He texted me right before he– before he jumped. I was really busy and annoyed with everything at the time, we were at Narita airport, just about to leave and I...” His voice trailed off and he had to swallow before finishing: “I hope he didn’t have time to read my reply.”

His eyes were getting wet again and it didn’t really help that Victor placed a comforting arm around his shoulders.

“He was a genius. An extraordinarily stupid genius, but a genius nevertheless. Whatever it was you said, I’m sure he knew to take no offense if he read it.”

Martin nodded unhappily. “I didn’t even know before the next day when we were back. I saw the headlines at the kiosk at Fitton airfield.”

“I found out from the news as well”, Victor said with a shake of his head. “I still can’t believe he’s dead. He never struck the type to– Well. Not even when he was doing drugs.”

“Yeah”, Martin agreed weakly. After that the conversation died. It seemed to happen often lately. They attempted to keep up the polite chit chat, but it was apparent that neither was really in the mood for it. They exchanged numbers and promised to call, even though when he said it, Martin already knew he probably wouldn’t.

The rest of the day was a blur. He returned to Mycroft’s residence for the night, and took a train back to Fitton the next day. The weeks that followed went on in a haze. He returned to flying a week after the funeral, when MJN had its next flight after Vilnius before Sherlock’s funeral. The flight deck had become a quiet place.

A month later he returned to London without informing anyone. It was just a day trip, after all. The graveyard was silent, peaceful even. Sherlock’s polished, new headstone stood apart from the others, very much like Sherlock had done all his life. He hadn’t brought flowers or anything else. He knew Sherlock didn’t care for such things. It hadn’t stopped the others. The flowers covered his brother’s birth and death dates.

“Hi, Sherlock”, he whispered, placing his hand on the black stone. “I came to say goodbye.”

Martin attempted a smile.

“I’m so sorry”, he whimpered silently. “You aren’t a fake. I don’t care what anyone says.”

He closed his eyes and tried to swallow back the tears. “You bloody _idiot. Why?_ Just tell me why, _please_. I know it’s bullshit that you don’t care what others think, but you don’t care enough to-to take your own life like that. So why? What did he say to you?”

There was no answer, of course. Nothing but the distant noise of traffic and the gentle wind rustling the leaves in the trees.

“I’m sorry I replied like that. I’m so sorry, please... If I’d just...”

He shook his head and wiped the tears from his face. It wouldn’t do him any good to blame himself. Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted that. It wasn’t his fault, he knew it wasn’t, but it didn’t stop him from feeling guilty or second-guessing himself. If he’d only done something differently, then maybe...

“I miss you, Sherlock.”

His finger idly traced the golden letters, until he withdrew his hand quickly. He straightened his back and let go of the stone. It was pointless, wasn’t it?

There were so many things he wanted to say, yet couldn’t put into words. He wanted desperately to say he loved his brother, but couldn’t come up with a way to say it so that it wouldn’t sound silly to his own ears. Besides, Sherlock wasn’t there to hear them.

“Goodbye, Sherlock”, he eventually said softly, voice breaking. “Sleep well, brother.”

He turned around and walked away. At the gate he raised his head to look at the sky. There was a contrail almost directly above and he smiled at it briefly. Fitton awaited. New places to fly to, new airfields to land to.

He closed the gate behind him and drew a shaky breath. Life had to go on.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologies for any mistakes. English is not my native language, nor do I claim to know much about funerals. I hope you enjoyed nevertheless.


End file.
